TLC Book Tours: When The Lights Go Out (excerpt)
About When the Lights Go Out
Hardcover: 336 pagesPublisher: Park Row; Original edition (September 4, 2018)
A woman is forced to question her own identity in this riveting and emotionally charged thriller by the blockbuster bestselling author of The Good Girl, Mary Kubica
Jessie Sloane is on the path to rebuilding her life after years of caring for her ailing mother. She rents a new apartment and applies for college. But when the college informs her that her social security number has raised a red flag, Jessie discovers a shocking detail that causes her to doubt everything she’s ever known.
Finding herself suddenly at the center of a bizarre mystery, Jessie tumbles down a rabbit hole, which is only exacerbated by grief and a relentless lack of sleep. As days pass and the insomnia worsens, it plays with Jessie’s mind. Her judgment is blurred, her thoughts are hampered by fatigue. Jessie begins to see things until she can no longer tell the difference between what’s real and what she’s only imagined.
Meanwhile, twenty years earlier and two hundred and fifty miles away, another woman’s split-second decision may hold the key to Jessie’s secret past. Has Jessie’s whole life been a lie or have her delusions gotten the best of her?
“Kubica brilliantly unravels the lives of two women in this tense and haunting tale of identity and deceit. WHEN THE LIGHTS GO OUT will keep you questioning everything-and everyone-until the riveting conclusion. A twisty, captivating, edge-of-your-seat read.” –Megan Miranda, New York Times bestselling author of ALL THE MISSING GIRLS
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Excerpt
Prologue
The city surrounds me. A panorama.
With arms outstretched, I can’t help but spin, taking it all in. Enjoying the view, knowing fully well this
may be the last thing my eyes ever see.
I
stare at the four metal steps before me, aware of how frail and broken-down
they look. They’re orange with rust,
paint flaking, some of the slats loose so that when I press my foot to the
first step, it buckles beneath me and I fall.
Still,
I have no choice but to climb.
I
pull myself back up, set my hands on the rails and scale the steps. The sweat bleeds from my palms so that the
metal beneath them is slippery, slick. I
can’t hold tight. I slip from the second
step, try again. I call out, voice cracking,
a voice that doesn’t sound like mine.
As
I reach the roof’s ledge, my knees give.
It takes everything I have not to topple over the edge of the building
and onto the street below. Seventeen
floors.
I’m
so high I could touch the clouds, I think.
The sense of vertigo is overpowering.
The ground whooshes up and at me, the skyscrapers, the trees starting to
sway until I no longer know what’s moving: them or me. Little yellow matchbooks soar up and down the
city streets. Cabs.
If
I was standing at street level, the ledge would feel plenty wide. But up here it’s not. Up here it’s a thread and on it, I’m trying
to balance my two wobbly feet.
I’m
scared. But I’ve come this far. I can’t go back.
There’s
a moment of calm that comes and goes so quickly I almost don’t notice it. For one split second the world is still. I’m at peace.
The sun moves higher and higher into the sky, yellow-orange glaring at
me through the buildings, making me peaceful and warm. My hands rise beside me as a bird goes
soaring by. As if my hands are wings, I
think in that moment what it would be like to fly.
And
then it comes rushing back to me.
I’m
hopelessly alone. Everything hurts. I can no longer think straight, I can no
longer see straight, I can no longer speak.
I don’t know who I am anymore. If
I am anyone.
And
I know in that moment for certain: I am no one.
I
think what it would feel like to fall.
The weightlessness of the plunge, of gravity taking over, of
relinquishing control. Giving up, surrendering
to the universe.
There’s
a flicker of movement beneath me. A
flash of brown, and I know that if I wait any longer, it will be too late. The decision will no longer be mine. I cry out one more time.
And
then I go.
JESSIE
I don’t have to see myself to know
what I look like.
My eyes are fat and bloated, so
bloodshot the sclera is bereft of white.
The skin around them is red and raw from rubbing. They’ve been like this for days. Ever since Mom’s body began shutting down,
her hands and feet cold, blood no longer circulating there. Since she began to drift in and out of
consciousness, refusing to eat. Since
she became delirious, speaking of things that aren’t real.
Over the last few days, her
breathing has changed too, becoming noisier and unstable, developing what the
doctor called Cheyne-Stokes respiration where, for many seconds at a time, she
didn’t breathe. Short, shallow breaths
followed by no breaths at all. When she
didn’t breathe, I didn’t breathe. Her
nails are blue now, the skin of her arms and legs blotchy and gray. “It’s a sign of imminent death,”
the doctor said only yesterday as he set a firm hand on my shoulder and
asked if there was someone they could call, someone who could come sit with me
until she passed.
“It won’t be long now,” he’d said.
I had shaken my head, refusing to
cry. It wasn’t like me to cry. I’ve sat in the same armchair for nearly a
week now, in the same rumpled clothes, leaving only to collect coffee from the
hospital cafeteria. “There’s no one,” I
said to the doctor. “It’s only Mom and
me.”
Only Mom and me as it’s always
been. If I have a father somewhere out
there in the world, I don’t know a thing about him. Mom didn’t want me to know anything about
him.
And
now this evening, Mom’s doctor stands before me again, taking in my bloated
eyes, staring at me in concern. This
time offering up a pill. He tells me to
take it, to go lie down in the empty bed beside Mom’s and sleep.
“When’s the last time you’ve slept,
Jessie?” he asks, standing there in his starch white smock, tacking on, “I
mean, really slept,” before I can
lie. Before I can claim that I slept
last night. Because I did, for a whole
thirty minutes at best.
He tells me the longest anyone has
gone without sleep. He tells me that
people can die without sleep. He says to
me, “Sleep deprivation is a serious matter.
You need to sleep,” though he’s not my doctor but Mom’s. I don’t know why he cares.
But for whatever reason, he goes on
to list for me the consequences of not sleeping. Emotional instability. Crying and laughing for no sound reason at
all. Behaving erratically. Losing concept of time. Seeing things. Hallucinating. Losing the ability to speak.
And then there are the physical
effects of insomnia. Heart attack,
hypothermia, stroke.
“Sleeping pills don’t work for me,”
I tell him, but he shakes his head, tells me that it’s not a sleeping
pill. Rather a tranquilizer of some
sort, used for anxiety and seizures. “It
has a sedative effect,” he says.
“Calming. It will help you sleep
without all the ugly side effects of a sleeping pill.”
But I don’t need to sleep. What I need instead is to stay awake, to be
with Mom until she makes the decision to leave.
I push myself from my chair, strut
past the doctor standing in the doorway.
“Jessie,” he says, a hand falling gently to my arm to try and stop me
before I can go. His smile is fake.
“I don’t need a pill,” I tell him
briskly, plucking my arm away. My eyes
catch sight of the nurse standing in the hallway beside the nurse’s station,
her eyes conveying only one thing.
Pity. “What I need is coffee,” I
say, not meeting her eye as I slog down the hallway, feet heavy with
fatigue.
About Mary Kubica
Thanks for featuring this excerpt for the tour!
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